powered by SignMyGuestbook.com

rue-madame's Diaryland Diary



It’s all set.

We’re going to Montreal for 5 days in September. I made reservations here and I am very looking forward to relaxing, walking around, eating, and listening to Qurazy Quebecois French.

A friend of mine has warned me to not even bother speaking French. “You won’t understand them! They won’t understand you!” but I refuse to believe that without at least trying.

I’ve heard the accent before, anyway.

When I was a kid, my parents always hosted people from out of town. One year they volunteered the guestroom to some Quebecois musicians who were in town for a few concerts.

When the musicians showed up, we all chatted and talked and communicated easily enough, but no one—neither my parents, nor my sisters, nor I—knew what their names were! They introduced themselves, and we had no idea what they were saying! So we all just moved the conversation along and avoided the name thing. After all, there are only so many times you can say “pardon?” or “comment?” to someone during introductions before you look stupid or rude.

It was torture. I’d see them walking down the hall, and they’d greet me, using MY name, and I would just say “salut” or “bonjour” or “ça va?” avoiding the name thing.

It became a regular topic at dinner: What Do You Think Their Names Are? It was starting to really drive me crazy this not knowing their names, so one day when they were at practice, I snuck into their room and looked at their luggage tags. Aha! I had solved the mystery.

The only name I can remember right now is Jean-Noel. When the Quebecois said it, it sounded nasal and round, more like “Jahnwahl” than a clear “Jean” with “Noel” after it. It was a trip.

So I’m ready. Bring on the poutine and the loonies.

9:34 a.m. - 2004-08-28



previous - next

latest entry

about me





roll the dice

other diaries: